Only moments after Ashen sank into the whispers of the corpses, the place began to change.
At first he heard a faint trickle, like water flowing far away. But the trickle quickly turned into something heavier… deeper… more hateful.
He looked at the ground and saw the scattered blood around him move.
The stains stuck to the gray stones began to melt and gather as if flowing toward a single center.
The blood spilled from the corpses and the torn flesh lying around all turned into a dark red liquid that began to flood the floor.
In seconds, the whole place became a moving swamp of blood.
The metallic smell dominated everything until it choked his chest.
The hanging corpses did not remain as they were…
Their skins tore more, their bones crumbled, then they melted like wax in fire.
Their torn flesh became a dark red liquid that poured from the hooks to feed a bloody river that overflowed without stop.
"…No…!"
Ashen tried to retreat, but the ground was no longer solid.
Every step sank into the blood up to his knees, then his waist.
He grabbed a melted hand, or what was left of a corpse's hand. Charred black fingers rose from the liquid and gripped his wrist, pulling him down.
He gasped, tried to break free… but dozens of hands rose from under the surface.
Thin arms, with ragged skin and protruding bones, but their grip was like steel.
Each hand held a part of his body: his legs, his arms, his shoulders.
"Bring us down…"
"Come down with us…"
"Why do you survive again?"
The voices became clearer, as if the blood itself had become his clan's throat.
Every breath Ashen took was filled with iron and salt, and he began to choke. He tried to lift his head, but every time he opened his eyes he saw faces forming in the red liquid.
His mother's face, pale and hollow-eyed, pulling him by the neck.
His old friend's face, half melted, the other half twisted into a smile.
His master's face, cursing him while digging his nails into Ashen's chest.
"If you were stronger… if you weren't weak… we wouldn't have all died!"
"You are the cause!"
"Come down with us! Be part of our slaughter!"
Ashen screamed, but the liquid swallowed his voice.
The blood covered him up to his chest… then his neck.
He opened his mouth to breathe, but instead of air the liquid flowed into his throat.
He coughed violently, but every time he spat blood he swallowed even more.
From every side, hands and arms scratched him, tore his flesh, leaving black burning marks.
The pain was not only physical.
Each scratch carried a whisper.
Each wound was a curse, injecting into him the hatred and malice with which his family had died.
Little by little, he felt his chest could no longer bear it.
Every inhale became a dagger. Every exhale became surrender.
The blood covered him completely.
He saw nothing but red darkness.
But in that darkness he was not alone… he was surrounded by his clan's faces.
Their burning eyes glowed like embers.
Their mouths muttered words of hatred.
Their hands carved into his flesh, engraving words of regret onto his bone.
Ashen no longer knew himself.
He fought the liquid to rise, but each time he neared the surface, hundreds of hands dragged him down.
It was as if the blood did not want him to survive… it wanted him to drown forever.
"Aaaah!!"
This scream was no longer a call for help, but the cry of an animal about to be torn apart.
Inside him, despair began to spread.
Survival was impossible…
Maybe truly… I should have died with them…
Maybe I really am a curse…
Those thoughts, like parasites, clung to his mind.
He began to believe them. He began to give in.
The hands pulled him more… and more… until drowning became reality, not a nightmare.
Their nails dug deeper, his blood mixed with theirs, his soul merged with their spirits.
And at the
last moment before his consciousness was completely erased…
Everything stopped.